Chuck vs the House
by William Ashbless
Summary: A sequel to Chuck vs. the Bête Noire. Team Bartowski are in Europe, hoping to prevent another World War. Based on the fairy tale "Hansel & Gretel.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is a continuation of my previous story, Chuck vs. the Bête Noire. In this universe, Chuck and Sarah reunited after Chuck and Casey hunted an insane Bryce Larkin. The information about European energy policy comes from public sources, so it's kinda interesting but the idea that organized crime is in charge in Russia is purely my imagination. :-)**

**This story is an experiment for me. It's going to be a fairly long process posting updates, so bear with me. It's not by choice, but the plot is more complicated than anything I've done before, so I'm working to make it come together and keep it interesting. **

**Lastly, I don't own Chuck but would like your feedback as to what you think so far. And if you've not read the previous story, Chuck vs. the Bête Noire, while not necessary, may make some background information clearer. **

**Thanks for reading! William Ashbless**

0235 Hours

25 June 2011

Marseille, France

Rain gently flew in the night, coating the streets of Marseille, the breeze moving the palm fronds on La Canebière. The man in black staggered on the cobblestones as he moved into the alley next to the Abbey of Saint-Victor. A stray thought entered into his mind, wondering if the Abbey would honor sanctuary for him, the atheist that had come to God in his last hours. He blinked, clearing his eyes, wondering anew if it was rain or tears that obscured his vision.

Duty had brought him to this point. Duty to a cause higher than him, higher than his life. Yet now, when the time to face oblivion he doubted the cause. Was it worth this? Was it worth his life? To what end? He knew that he played a part, he just wasn't sure if his part was worth his life.

The cobblestones had become more slick, despite the rain slacking off. The man in black refused to acknowledge the reason why. Slowly he made his way to the yellowish tungsten street lighting at the end of the street. He needed to get the information out, he needed to finish his duty. Staggering to the light, he fell. Sharp pain drove into his stomach from the fall as his internal organs squeezed in response.

A harsh light into his face caused him to flinch in response.

"Mais qu'est-ce qui ce passe?" a gruff voice spoke while a large,meaty hand shook his shoulder. A moan,barely audible, escaped from his lips.

"Il est blessé!", a different voice shouted, unbearably loud.

The first voice spoke again, "J'appelle l'ambulance!".

And then finally, blessedly, darkness.

0747 Hours

25 June 2011

Centre Administratif des Tourelles

The secure conference in the basement of the DGSE headquarters building smelled. The odor could only be described as despair, fear and anguish mixed together, with a large helping of politics.

"Gentlemen, Action Service has received notification that Operation Ardent Lion has failed. The primary operative was stabbed to death in Marseille a few hours ago." said the Director General. "As you know, the success of this mission was of paramount importance to both the President and the Prime Minister. Monsieur Leveque, please review the mission objectives and key players."

A thin faced man, with Mediterranean features, collar length hair and a neatly trimmed short boxed beard reached for the projector remote and began to speak.

"Colleagues. Russia has a significant role in the European energy sector as the largest exporter of oil and natural gas to the European Union. In 2007, the European Union imported from Russia 185 million tonnes of crude oil, which accounted for 32.6% of total oil import, and 100.7 million tonnes of oil equivalent of natural gas, which accounted 38.7% of total gas import."

"The Russian state-owned company Gazprom exports natural gas to Europe. It also controls a large number of subsidiaries, including key infrastructure assets. According to the study published by the Research Centre for East European Studies, the liberalization of the EU gas market has driven Gazprom's expansion in Europe by increasing its share in the European downstream market. It has established sale subsidiaries in nearly all its export markets, as also gained direct access to industrial and power generation sectors in Western and Central Europe. In addition, Gazprom has established joint ventures to build natural gas pipelines and storage depots in a number of European countries. Transneft, a Russian state-owned company responsible for the national oil pipelines, is another important Russian company supplying energy to Europe."

"Every member state of the EU is a consumer of Russian natural gas, ranging from 14% here in France to as high as 100% in Finland. Each of France's bordering neighbors receives as a minimum of 30% of it's natural gas from Russia."

"If the Russian gas companies were normal companies, governed and managed by professional business people, public or private shareholders and accountability within their industry and to their customers, they would not be dissimilar to any other energy company. However, that is not the case with the Russians."

"Despite repeated requests for transparency from the companies, public knowledge of who controls these companies is unclear. Our private investigations have determined that while the government does have some control, criminal organizations have significantly higher control."

"As such, pricing has repeatedly been influenced not by market conditions or natural disasters, but rather by the arbitrary decisions of the criminal organizations. These arbitrary decisions have, at times, directed resulted in high levels of instability, not only in France, but also throughout the EU."

"We, along with our partners in the intelligence community, have launched operations to limit the impact of the control that the criminal organizations have. However, each operation has failed, including this latest one that resulted in the brutal murder of our operative. That concludes my briefing."

"Thank you Leveque." said the Director General. "The Government has decided that that the security of the Republic is at stake while criminals maintain control of the natural gas needed by the European Union as a whole. Despite my protest that this remain a European issue, the Prime Minister has decided to bring in the Americans."

"Due to the sensitivity of this particular objective and the risk of failure, the Government has made a formal request to the US Intelligence Community to send the very best covert action team they have. As I understand it, the team that is in mind was behind the recent successful effort to stop the rogue terrorist that attempted to use a nerve agent in Rome a few months ago. All of us know how successful that effort was once this team became involved."

"I understand that the team has been recuperating from injuries from that mission but I've been assured that they will be available for this. Finally, let me state that while I despise the Americans as a whole for their arrogance and their cowboy mentality, we have our orders and I expect full cheerful and willing obedience in support of the Americans. Continued instability in the countries on our borders can result in governments toppling. Let us not forget that the Nazis came to power in part because of economic issues and a desire to secure more resources. Another war serves no one but the devil."

June 24, 2011

2253 Hours

Phoenix Inn, Chinatown, Los Angeles

The small party spilled out of the restaurant, laughter proceeding their return to the street. Even the normally stoic John Casey seemed to be in good spirits. Sarah, in a blue top that perfectly matched her eyes, burrowed deeper in the circle made by Chuck's arm, smiling in pure bliss. Chuck looked down and with that million watt smile that made her heart burst every time, leaned in and kissed her.

"TAXI!" in a voice that only Devon, "Captain Awesome" could summon broke the kiss, as Ellie smiled at the picture of happiness that was her brother and his fiance.

A yellow van pulled up to the curb and the party piled in.

"Where to?"

"Echo Park" said Ellie.

The van merged into traffic and began the drive to Casa Bartowski. Five minutes later, as the van arrived at the apartment complex, Casey felt a mental twitch. Surreptitiously, he placed his hand on his Sig Sauer P229 as he exited from the front passenger side. He looked over at Sarah and affirmed that she was feeling the same twitch as he was. They locked eyes and immediately communicated in that operational short hand they used when they were everyday partners.

Casey moved into the courtyard as Sarah slowed the rest of the party down. As he walked in, bearing to the left of the fountain, Sarah moved to the right. Ten feet in and then people appeared out of the shadowed recesses of doorways, angles, and corners. Casey grunted, knowing that they were outnumbered. Chuck, Ellie, Devon and Morgan were ushered in by additional people stationed outside.

An expectant air filled the air as the group noticed a diminutive unmistakable figure standing in the doorway of Casa Bartowski.

"Hello. I'm afraid we need Team Bartowski." said Diane Beckman.

"Oh shit. Here we go again."

June 25, 2011

0013 Hours

Casa Bartowski

"And that sums up why I'm here. Your team is the most successful in the history of the US Intelligence community. You've saved thousands of lives with your actions. We, the world, needs you for this mission if we have any hope of preventing a war over economic resources."

Chuck sat quietly, his mind racing, Sarah on his left holding his hand, with Ellie on his right doing the same.

"Chuck! Look at me!" exclaimed Ellie in a voice near tears. "Don't do this, you don't have to do this. You're not a spy, you're a game designer. You have a beautiful woman that loves you, family that loves you and friends that care about you! Tell him Sarah!"

All eyes turned to Sarah. She knew him better than anyone. She knew that whatever she said, whatever decision she voiced, Chuck would follow. She turned her body slightly, willing her emotions to convey nothing. She reached over and touched that face that she loved more than life itself.

"I can't Ellie. He has to decide for himself."

Chuck sighed. He looked at Beckman. He looked at Casey and knew what the big man would say. He knew what Ellie wanted. He released the girls' hands and stood up.

"Did you know that Bartowski is a Polish name? I knew that, but didn't understand what that meant until after I got the Intersect in my head. In 1939, the Nazis invaded Poland and occupied them from 1939 until 1945. Then the Soviets occupied them from 1945 to 1989. During the Nazi occupation, 6 million Poles died, over 20% of the population. Whole branches of families were wiped. In fact, the only reason the Bartowski name exists because our branch of the family emigrated to the US in 1934. Had our great grandfather stayed in Poland, we'd probably not exist. And the Soviets weren't much better, were they?"

He turned to look at Ellie and Sarah, sitting together, unconsciously holding each others' hand, as they watched him, with tears in their eyes.

"I couldn't forgive myself if millions or even one person dies because I choose to do nothing. Sarah, Casey, I'll understand if you say no, but I can't do this without you two."

Casey grunted his affirmation while Sarah nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Chuck knelt close to Ellie's lap. "Ellie, please forgive me." he said as she burst into tears. She touched his hair, his face and looked deep into his eyes. With a small, barely visible nod, she whispered, "Yes."

Sarah, Devon, and Morgan gathered around the two siblings and hugged them hard, willing comfort into their hurting souls. After a few minutes, Chuck disengaged himself from his sister and reached for Sarah's hand. Her blue eyes shone with pride and love and a little bit of fear, knowing that they were getting back into the Great Game and this one might be harder than the hunt for Bryce.

"General." Casey grunted. "We're ready to start. Where do we report?"

"Colonel Casey, we'll take your team to Edwards Air Force base, where we'll depart for France. We'll depart in the hour."

"General. I need to talk to my dad first. He'll need to know to stop working on taking the Intersect out again."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I don't own Chuck.**

**0930 Hours**

**26 June 2011**

**Somewhere over the North Atlantic**

The military version of the 737 aircraft was configured to support Cabinet members and combat command officers as they traveled on government business. Beckman had one placed at her disposal in support of this mission. Currently, it held her, her security detail, Chuck, Sarah, Casey and Casey's twenty five man strike team. The plane had four distinct sections, two galleys and a crew of five. The first section held Casey's strike team, many of whom had been with him during the hunt for Larkin. The second section held state of the art communication equipment, providing access to not only voice but also broadband data. The third section held work tables and seating while the fourth section held sleeping accommodations for Beckman.

The team had spent most of the flight gathered around one of the work tables, reviewing the files available on the mission. It was very clear from the files that criminals were involved in the decisions made. More information would be provided upon arrival to DGSE headquarters after landing.

Casey came back from the rear galley carrying a pot of fresh coffee and several mugs. Laying them out on the work table, he looked over and caught Sarah's attention. She nodded and then turned to Chuck.

"Chuck, Casey and I need to talk with you. We really need you to listen to what we have to say and agree. This mission we're on, it's not like any other one you've been on, but it is what Casey and I have done for years. There is no 'stay in the car' order this time because the only way this is going to work is if you're actively involved. But at the same time, we have to keep you safe. Does that make sense?"

Chuck grinned. "Sure I get it, no prob.."

Casey interrupted, "No, I don't think you do. In 1998, I was assigned to a six month op in Turkmenistan. I was the controller for a network of eight agents that were in different roles in the oil industry there. Some worked for the government, some for the state run companies and some were in the local version of the mafia. Two of my assets made a mistake and blew their covers. In under six hours, all eight of my assets had been rolled up and I was on the run for three weeks making my way from the Caspian sea, over the Caucasus mountains into Turkey. Later, I found video showing one of my assets getting her legs sawed off at the knees and fed to pigs while still alive. The rest, I heard, were thrown into crematoriums alive. These type of people don't have rules Chuck. They're criminals, and savages. Don't forget that."

"Casey's right, Chuck. And because of that, we need you to know about something. He and I have an way to get in touch if things go south. It's time you know about it. Do you remember the song "Walk like an Egyptian"?

Chuck nodded, slightly in shock from the intensity and hidden anger on Casey's face.

"We'll have an extraction plan for this mission. Whatever that plan is, if it works, that's what applies. This option is if we can't use the official plan."

"BBC Worldwide broadcasts all over the world via shortwave, internet streaming, podcasts, satellite, FM and microwave relays. In other words, you can listen to it anywhere, anyhow. Casey has a contact in the programing department." Sarah paused as she sipped her coffee. "You know how to calculate Greenwich Mean Time from whatever time zone you're in, right? If you listen at 9:07 in the morning and 9:07 in the evening, Greenwich Mean Time, and you hear the broadcaster say the words, "Walk", "Like, "Egyptian" in some type of phrasing within a three minute window, that means to go to the rally point, which is the Frankfurt Flughafen train station. From there, we can make further arrangements. If you get there by yourself, whistle, hum, sing, whatever works for you, the chorus of "Walk Like an Egyptian. Like this: Way-oh-way-oh-way-ooo-aaa-oo...walk like an Egyptian, walk like an Egyptian."

Chuck's eyes got wide. "The Bangles?"

"Yes, it's pretty distinctive, but it's also part of pop culture so anyone could conceivably be singing, whistling, humming it in a public place without looking out of place."

Casey grunted. "Chuck, we don't share this info with anybody, including Beckman. This isn't a matter of trust, it's survival. We're involved in things that countries have gone to war over, with people that don't do tea and crumpets."

Sarah reached out and held Chuck's hand. "We know we're scaring you, but trust us, this is a case where fear keeps you alive. This plan...let's just call it a fail safe."

**26 June 2011**

**1537 Hours**

**Centre Administratif des Tourelles **

A conference room on the third floor had been set aside for this operation. Awaiting Beckman and the team were several DGSE agents. Introductions were quickly made as everybody seated themselves. A plain, round faced, brown skinned woman in gray cleared her throat meaningfully and began to address the group.

"Bon jour. For the benefit of the Americans we will use English to converse in. My name is Dahlia Kahina and I will be the mission controller. Lights off please."

As the lights were dimmed, Kahina turned on a projector and began using a laser pen began the briefing.

"Our target is Itrea Holdings, the natural gas export sales company. Itrea is the second largest seller of natural gas commodities in Europe. It is a private company with no public ownership. It is suspected of ties to not only Russian organized crime but also the Sicilian mafia."

Kahina paused and looked significantly at her audience. "Let me emphasize that the information we've gathered is the result of months of surveillance, human and signal intelligence. People have died for this information."

"An analysis of the workings of Itrea has yielded the conclusion that there is a loose alliance of criminal interests in control of the company. This alliance, which we have code named 'Dacha', functions as a collective, with leadership dictated by the number of shares a member may hold. Originally, there were thirty voters, but that number has decreased to twenty six. The surplus shares were assumed by these four individuals, who we call the top tier." Kahina had advanced the slide to show numerous Slavic males and pointed to four specific photographs of middle aged men. "Lukashenko, Vasileyov, Ignatyev, and Krasnov. Security is tight but..."

_tricolour flag of three equal horizontal fields, white on the top, blue in the middle and red on the bottom _

_horses_

_coat of arms, A lion sejant in a watching posture with her dexter paw extended holding a sickle_

_a blue uniform tunic and fleece high hat_

_tricolour flag of three equal horizontal fields, white on the top, blue in the middle and red on the bottom_

Chuck willed his face to not betray the fact that he had just flashed on Piotr Dutka, a second tier member of the Dacha.

"Uh...excuse me, Agent Kahina, but what about exploiting Piotr Dutka's obsessions with Cossacks? His family are Cossacks and he spends a lot of his time and money funding cultural events and reenactments." Chuck became acutely aware of every eye in the room turning to face him, especially Casey and Sarah. "Uh, what I mean is...instead of doing some type of hard overt assault on him, why not run a sting?"

"Agent Carmichael, yes?" Leveque raised his hand for acknowledgment. "Francois Leveque. What exactly do you propose? You give the...how do you say...appearance of having a plan. Please, continue."

"Well, sir, my thought is to approach it from what are his twin driving obsessions. The Cossacks and his desire to have more power within the Dacha. I propose that we create a cover for a skilled operative to become a confidante of Dutka using a shared interest in Cossacks. This operative then uses the relationship to involve Dutka in a Ponzi scheme in order to increase his share within Itrea."

Chuck stood up and went to the whiteboard on the left wall. He grabbed a dry erase marker and began to sketch a flowchart, with squares, diamonds and connecting lines.

"Look, here is Dutka. He wants to be over here as a first tier. In order to be first tier, he needs a bigger share. We know the shares are bearer bonds that are held by each of the twenty six, with the four first tier holding double the number of bearer bonds than others, to the tune of five hundred million euros."

"What is a 'Ponzi' scheme? Something Italian?"

"No sir. A Ponzi scheme, it's a fraudulent investment operation that pays returns to separate investors from their own money or money paid by subsequent investors, rather than from any actual profit earned. The Ponzi scheme usually gets new investors by offering returns other investments cannot guarantee, in the form of short-term returns that are abnormally high."

"I understand. Please continue."

"We use signal intelligence to put disinformation into his systems. You're already intercepting his communications, so it's just a matter of putting different ideas into his mind, inception if you will. We give him enough rumors to think that this guy here, Timofeyev, is wanting to get out and is thinking about selling off his shares."

"Based on Dutka's cash flow, he doesn't have two hundred fifty million euros available right now. But what if his buddy introduces him to a company that can double his investment in seventy two hours?"

"Wait." Kahina interrupted. "How does that get us control?"

"That's where we set him up with a banker that will advance him the funds in the form of a loan, using the bonds as a collateral." Chuck beamed like a school boy giving the right answer.

The room erupted. Shouted questions regarding payment bombarded the room, people talking across the table, fists shaking in the direction of Chuck.

"Agent Carmichael. Paying that much for the control of the bonds is something that we just can't do. There are oversight requirements, cash authorizations and..it's just not possible." Leveque gravely said. "It's a good idea but just not possible in today's economic times."

"Oh, we're not going to pay him for those bonds. We're going to steal them. See, the bank can "wire" the funds to him, but we can set up a program to initiate the transaction, spoof the amounts, but then bootstrap it's way back out. His account will show the balance for twenty four hours and then disappear. We then take the bonds he's given to us to the next monthly meeting of the Dacha and present our vote. Since physical ownership of the bearer bonds is the only thing that matters, we become shareholders at that point."

Silence reigned in the room, as various members of the group absorbed the plan. Beckman looked around and gauged the mood of the overall team and then stood up.

"Agent Carmichael. If your plan is approved, what do you need to make it work?"

"Well, General, we'll need someone that can pass as a Cossack with a cover story that gets them in contact with Dutka. We'll need somebody to be the Ponzi salesman with a viable story for the investment returns. Then we'll need somebody to be the banker. We need to plant disinformation into his information sources, including his emails. We'll also need an account that we show a balance in, that when verified by Dutka's people, actually has those funds in it, before it's transferred to him. It's not actually going to go to him you understand, but showing a balance is critical to him accepting the scheme. Lastly, we need a drop point for the bonds to get them back here at the first opportunity."

"Understood. All, please get together and provide complete details and your recommendations to me by tomorrow morning. We'll present to the Director General for his approval. If you don't approve of this plan, you may present one additional alternative. That will be all. Thank you for your time. Agents Carmichael, Walker and Casey, please stay for a minute."

After the rest of the group had left and the secure door closed, Beckman leaned forward in her chair, her fingers interlaced, supporting her chin.

"I don't think this is going to be a safe mission. However, I really think this is our best chance of success. The French have been trying for two years to make something happen and have not succeeded. That being said, we need to be the leads on this. Colonel, please make assignments as appropriate to ensure the best chance of success. Good work. I'll be looking for the plan detail tomorrow."

**Please review! **


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews all! And as always, I don't own Chuck.**

**28 August 2011**

**1942 Hours**

**Nice, France**

The big man stepped out onto the balcony of his suite, the warm, wet night air washing over his face,leaving the chatter of his team behind him. Six weeks of hard, hard work had brought them to this point, the evening before the operation went live.

The time spent had been focused on several different pieces, all of which were critical to the success of the operation. He pulled a cigar out from his inner suit pocket, and began the laborious process to light it. The match flared to life, showing the changes to his features. Facial prosthetics had rounded his face and made his nose more European in shape and broken in appearance. Six weeks of not shaving had given him a thick beard, which in turn, had been colored a deep black with streaks of white, giving him a sophisticated salt and pepper look.

His new biography had him born in June 1954, the son of Cossack émigrés to Canada, divorced three times and a reputation as someone willing to take high risks for high payouts. He had made and lost millions over the last twenty years. Passion had driven his life, whether it was money, women or pride.

The last piece of the reputation rested on the NSA buying a "down on it's luck" traveling rodeo show and transforming it from an Old West focus to a Cossack Adventure Show. Performers that had been Apaches or Sioux became Turks and Poles. Cowboys in Stetsons, chaps and spurs became Cossacks with top hats, lances and sabers. Shipping the equipment and horses overseas, while challenging, was simply a logistics operation. Repeated practices and drilling had resulted in new routines being developed that highlighted the speed, fury and power of the Cossack host Routines such as the three man pyramid atop two horses galloping at full speed. Or the horse leaping through rings of fire. Or his personal favorite, displays of marksmanship, either on foot or from galloping horseback.

Bookings had been secured throughout Europe for a three month tour, starting in Marseille, France. Television interviews for maximum exposure of the tour had been secured by the DGSE, who also assisted with massive advertising. The TV ads focused on the Cossack legend, with an emphasis on horsemanship, marksmanship and dance. The print media that had been created recalled the old fifties commercial posters with smiling faces and horses.

Extensive surveillance and researched had resulted in a complete profile of the target. Scenarios had been built and responses had been designed to guide the target in a particular direction. No matter what situation he would find himself in, Casey knew exactly what to say and do to guide the target along the path. There was always risk that the target would kill him, but that's the life of a spy.

He rolled the cigar between his thick fingers, coaxing the orange embers to a bright cherry red. Satisfied with the light, he drew deeply, as the faint sounds of a car radio rose from the street below. What was that song? Ah, yes, Kansas' "Dust in the Wind". How appropriate for the night before an undercover op. What were those words again?

_I close my eyes, only for a moment, and the moment's gone  
All my dreams, pass before my eyes, a curiosity  
Dust in the wind, all they are is dust in the wind.  
Same old song, just a drop of water in an endless sea  
All we do, crumbles to the ground, though we refuse to see _

It had certainly been awhile since he had truly gone undercover. To be honest, this one was slightly worrying. The stone cold killer from years before had changed. Oh, he could still pull the trigger with the best of them but...there were people that cared what happened to him now. Truth be told, he cared about them also. Not from a "lady-feelings" perspective, but definitely from a sense of loyalty to team mates and friends.

Life is strange, he thought, the plans God has for us are definitely something to wonder about. Here, I am, a very bad man yet strangely righteous, about to commit acts of deception, in order to secure economic security for a nation not even his own.

He snorted and went back inside to his team. Time to steal a future.

**29 August 2011**

**1715 Hours**

**TV Canal 2 Studio**

**Nice, France**

"Monsieur Kotovskiy, if you please, you may wait here, until we are ready for the interview. Can I get you anything to eat? Or to drink?" The young, slim television producer had escorted Casey to a solarium at the back of the studio. The walls were a muted mocha color and the glass ceilings arched down, creating an open expanse. A low, black set of cabinets served as a long table along one wall. Fruits, croissants, pastries and cheeses were displayed along with bottles of wine and mineral water.

"Some red wine, please?" he said, catching her eyes, with a smile and selling her on the impression that he found her immensely attractive. She blushed faintly, as she turned to the cabinets and selected a table wine and poured two glasses. Returning, she guided Kotovskiy to a pair of red, oversized leather club chairs close to the center of the room.

"I've heard of Cossacks my entire life, but I'm afraid I don't know what is fact or fantasy." She sipped her wine. "Can you tell me what is a Cossack?"

He told her of the birth of the Cossacks, serfs who had run away to the Dneiper River valley to be free, how they came to be skilled in horsemanship and warfare. How they lived under a code of honor, of brotherhood, of fidelity to the people. He told her an abbreviated version of the wars the Cossacks had fought to stay free, wars against the Turks, against the Poles, and against the Rus. The Cossacks created a military organization that Karl Marx described as a "Cossack Christian Republic" having inherent within it a traditional right, a distinct social structure, high morals and a set of respectful manners as well as a effective military philosophy & traditions. This organization or "Sech" became the most important factor in the lives of the Cossacks. Whoever came to Sech no matter what his origin was considered to be a free man and thus had the right to participate in the government as well as the use of lands, a concept that enlightened thoughts of self government and human rights globally. And finally, he told her of the mistakes of the twentieth century. How the Cossacks, in trying to maintain their independence, had fought on both sides of World War II. How their choices ended up costing the Cossack people mightily in lives lost and culture destroyed.

"And so, while some people may deride what I do as 'entertainment', I see it as way to ensure that the Cossack Culture, what makes us a great people never dies. For you see, we're the keepers of freedom."

The door into the solarium opened and a harried looking young man wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard hurried in. "Monsieur Kotovskiy? We're ready for your interview. Please come with me."

Showtime.

**2007 Hours**

**29 August 2011**

**Nice, France**

Piotr Dutka. Short, tough, dark haired man with a pasty white face. The contrast between his hair and face emphasized the deep acne scars while his thick bristling mustache balanced his large nose. Entering his suite, he tossed the expensive, Italian made cashmere jacket to the floor as he grabbed the TV remote. Aiming it like a pistol, he savagely changed channels, stopping only when he heard the unmistakeable sound of Cossack music.

"Alexi!" he roared. "Look at this man, pretending to be a Cossack! Find him, bring him to me!"

The man currently known as Kotovskiy, the owner operator of the Cossack Adventure Show, paused outside of the Canal studio and pulled a large cigar from his inner coat pocket. A faint smile touched his lips as he spotted the two toughs who had obviously been waiting for him. Tapping his heavy oaken walking stick in a peculiar rhythm, he turned into the nearby alley. His hidden ear bud crackled and a familiar voice spoke. "Are you sure this is them?" A barely audible grunt from Kotovskiy. Time for the hunters to become the hunted.

Steps behind him, growing louder. A meaty hand reached for his shoulder, smelling of drunken sweat and garlic, while a voice spoke behind him in bad French. "Come on old man, someone wants to see you, since you say you're Cossack on television!"

Kotovskiy growled as the meaty hand spun him around to face him. "You, anus of dog, you dare accuse me of being a false Cossack?" Kotovskiy drove the head of his walking stick into the tough guy's solar plexus and brought his knee up into his face as he bent over. The man screamed in pain and fell to the cobblestones, retching and bleeding.

"Stop!" yelled the other man. Kotovskiy spun to face a Beretta 92F pointed at him. "Enough of this shit, old man! Somebody wants to see you!"

Kotovskiy smiled faintly, no teeth showing, meeting the tough's eyes and holding them. The tough tightened his finger on the trigger, a cold sick feeling in his stomach, fearing the odds if the terrible old man in front of him said no.

"Da. I would be interested in that."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I don't own Chuck**

**Interlude:**

**21 June 1994**

**Paris, France**

**2315 Hours**

She had a name. Not many people used it though, and that's why she died. She huddled under the cover of the south side of the Petit Pont, trying to stay out of the windy rain. She grumbled and mumbled to herself, drinking the foul, cheap red table wine, her belly full with wine.

The lights barely penetrated the dark night, mostly serving to distinguish one set of shadows from another. The sounds of light traffic barely registered in her drunken mind. In fact, not much registered in her mind. She was only in her mid-twenties, but living for nine years on the streets of Paris had given her the body and face of a forty year old.

She didn't know that the killer had been stalking her for five days, taking photographs, checking her habits, looking for people that knew her or of her. Satisfied that she would meet the requirements, the killer waited in the shadows for the opportune moment.

She shuffled her feet, and turned to head back up the stairs to the street and the bridge entrance. A gloved hand shoved fingers into her mouth, making her gag. A stream of red wine and undigested food began to vomit from her stomach. Another gloved hand flattened itself on her chest, sliding down from her breast. Thoughts of rape were never far from her mind, an outcome of life on the street. She tried to struggle but biting the hand in her mouth accomplished nothing because of the thick, pigskin glove.

She felt the hand stop, just below her rib cage. And then a sharp, blinding pain ripped through her body. Her killer's masked face held her eyes and waited. Seconds later, she died. The killer slowly pulled the stiletto, pleased that the training had resulted in very little blood. The killer gently laid the body on the concrete and picked up the half empty bottle of wine, pouring it into the river. Scraping a foot along the bank, the killer stepped back, satisfied with the image that was created. An empty bottle of wine, a scrape on the bank, a missing body. Clearly, the street person had had too much to drink and fallen into the river. Shit happens.

The killer lifted the body, giving the appearance of helping a drunk friend, with the body's left arm across the shoulder and the killer's head and neck supporting the weight. Struggling up the stairs into a waiting Citroën panel van, the killer placed the body in the passenger seat. The van started and then began the long drive via the N12 to the Normandie-Maine natural park, outside of Paris.

Two hours later, and the van had stopped at a remote campsite close to the boundaries of the park. The killer stepped out and opened the back door of the van and pulled out a pick, a shovel and an electric lantern. Turning the lantern on and setting it up gave the killer a fairly decent area light. Working quickly with the pick and shovel, the killer created a shallow depression, just large and deep enough for the body.

The killer returned the tools to the van and donned safety glasses, a vapor resistant face mask and replaced the leather gloves with chemical resistant gloves. A large container of lye was removed and placed by the depression. The body was dragged over to to the depression where all the clothing was cut away, bagged and placed in the van.

Carefully, the lye was applied in select places. The mouth, to destroy the teeth and the fingers to eliminate fingerprints. The killer covered the body with dirt and rocks and returned all the equipment back to the van. Reaching in, grasping fingers found a hiker's backpack with all the odds and ends that a young, college age hiker would have, including a Spanish passport in the name of Olivia Moreno, an Arts student from the University of Barcelona. Several items inferring a summer hiking trip using various parts of the GR network of trails, with the latest being GR26, were stuffed in the bottom of the pack. The entire pack was thrown into the nearby trees, a few feet from the shallow grave. Again, the police would draw the conclusion that the killer wanted. Why look for a mystery when there wasn't one?

The killer carefully turned the van around and headed back out of the park. Driving for roughly an hour, the breaking dawn found the killer along a deserted farm road. Stopping on the shoulder, the killer opened the van door and struggled to push out an ancient two stroke motorcycle. The killer, once known as Olivia Moreno, now nameless, stuffed a rag into the fuel tank of the van and set it alight.

Starting the motorcycle, she pulled off and pondered her status. Creating a false identity and entering a country was easier said than done. Getting rid of the Moreno identity by faking an unfortunate attack using the homeless woman's body was critical in allowing her the freedom to move. A dead homeless woman, no one would care, and all the clues pointed to an accidental drowning after too much wine. In a few more days, she would be a new person, with a solid background and credentials that would get her an entry level job in the security services. She looked back and saw the van completely inflamed.

Much like France would be if she succeeded.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **

**Sorry for the delay in posting this update, but I just couldn't get the mechanics to flow right with this scene. Not my best effort either, but at least it's moving in the right direction again. Feel free to tear it apart in the reviews since I can't figure out what's wrong with it.**

**I don't own Chuck**

**29 August 2011**

**0200 Hours**

**Eze, France**

"**_Never confuse movement with action" Ernest Hemingway_**

The xenon headlights of the Audi A8 sedan lit up the exit sign marking the final turn into the rented chateau. Casey, with hands visibly on the wheel, stopped at the gate and waited for the gate guard to identify him, aware that there were unseen snipers targeting his vehicle.

Satisfied, the guard opened the iron gate and waved him through into the courtyard. Several other vehicles of various makes and models were parked on the gravel, but there was a space directly in front of the small group of people waiting on the outside portico steps. He parked, cut off the engine and stepped out of the sedan, feeling the bruises, feeling the warmth of his pistol in the shoulder rig.

"You okay, big guy?" Even now, in the middle of a mission on foreign soil, in front of the frog eating Frenchies, the moron is still showing his lady feelings he thought. Casey grunted in reply.

"Let's get into the briefing room and review the status of tonight's operation." said Sarah to the group at large, still wearing the dark wig from earlier. Casey followed Chuck, Sarah and Kahina into the chateau's dining room. The large, twelve person table was covered with papers, laptops, network cables and the leftovers from some type of meal.

"You took some aggressive risks tonight Colonel." said Kahina as she sat down at the table. She pulled a laptop towards her and powered it up. "This is not a mission that can afford to fail. It is critical to the interests of France that we succeed. You exceeded the mission parameters"

"Agent Kahina" interrupted Casey. "With all due respect, while I may have exceeded the parameters, I was operating in the field and exercised my best judgment to make the target accept me. I think you can agree, that I succeeded."

"But at what cost Colonel! Your impromptu display brought the attention of not only the local police but also the media! We can't afford that kind of attention!"

Chuck cleared his throat. "Uh, excuse me, but let's focus on the after action report, ok? Casey, why don't you take it from the top."

**28 August 2011**

**2047 Hours**

**Nice, France**

Casey marched into the Palais de la Méditerranée Casino, the two toughs on his heels like whipped dogs. The casino itself fronted the Promenade des Anglais with tall palm trees up and down the street. Casey caught the eye of the tall brown haired man seated at one of the many blackjack tables. His ear bud came on and Chuck said, "I have eyes on the agent. Just passing my location en route to the back room."

Casey continued to move with the two toughs towards the high stakes poker tables in the back. The large room he entered was actually a split level. The upper area was a gently sloping ramp with two arms that entered the lower area directly opposite the entrance that he had just walked through. A brass, tubular rail marked the inside curve. Two large tables with seating for roughly ten players dominated the room itself. Only one table was in use, though. The five seated players were of obviously different backgrounds. Two Asiatics, an Arabic in formal headdress, another man of indeterminate ethnicity but exceptional taste in clothes and finally, Dutka. In addition, several men of the silent and dangerous type with the distinctive armpit bulge of small arms were near their various employers, watching the audience, not the game.

Dutka, visibly drunk even from this distance, saw Casey and his men and waved them over to him, his drink sloshing as he placed a bet. Casey brought up his hand and brushed his nose with his thumb, concealing his lips as he said, "I've got an idea. Can you spoof the casino?"

Chuck keyed his mike. "Sarah. Casey's taken tactical control. Stand by, we're moving on the fly." A squelch of static answered him.

Casey's ear bud crackled. "Casey, I need five minutes to spoof the grid and take control of it. Sarah's coming in. Let her know what the play is." And then a pause. "I really think this is going to suck."

Meanwhile, Dutka looked Casey over and was visibly impressed by both his demeanor and appearance.

"So, you're the Cossack circus master, da?" said Dutka, his words slurring. "Huh, hey, Ivan, what happened to you? This old man, tougher than you, then?" he snorted in contempt. He turned his bleary eyes back to Casey. "Let me win back all this money I've lost tonight old man, and then we'll talk. Get a drink and stand over there."

Ivan and the other nameless tough followed Casey over to the viewing area below the ramp. A dark haired, dark complected uniformed server, her hair in a tight bun, walked over to the group, having just made her rounds by the poker players.

"Something to drink, gentlemen?" Casey handed over his credit card.

"Vodka"

"Vodka"

"Vodka"

"Three vodkas, one moment." The server walked away and returned a few minutes later, carrying three vodkas on a silver serving platter. She handed each of the three a vodka martini and a napkin. She also handed Casey the leather server pad with his credit card and receipt. He quickly scrawled _Show Somebody Cheats _in the signature block and handed the pad back to the disguised Sarah. She thanked him and began to walk away, only to turn back.

"Monsieur. You gave me both copies. Here's your receipt copy."

Casey's receipt had a short message written on the border: _Ready. Paint the target._ He curled only his middle finger around the stem of the martini glass and waited, watching Sarah return to the poker table.

"Gotcha. Target is player number two. In five, four, three, two, one."

The lights of the room flickered, dimmed and then resumed their previous state. The casino security men moved closer to the table, just to insure that no one had been tempted to pocket additional chips. A babble of excited voices gradually died down as the dealer spoke.

"Monsieurs. Per casino rules, we shall re-deal the last hand. Please return your current hands to me. Thank you. And now, if you would, please ante."

Each of the five players began the process of throwing in chips. The Asiatic player in the number two chair took hold of his chips and began to push his ante in.

"WAIT!" yelled the Arabic player in boarding school English. "Check him. What's that?" He pointed to the second Asiatic player's shirt cuffs. A sudden tension filled the air, as the Arabic grabbed the accused player's hands and an Ace of Clubs fluttered to the table. The bodyguards began to move closer to their principals, as yelling and shoving players escalated the situation. Casey locked eyes with the disguised Sarah and subtly mimed pulling a trigger. A second later, a gunshot rang out, stunning the crowd and then madness set in.

"Move the fuck now immediately!" yelled Casey in Ukrainian as he drove through the group to reach Dutka's side. Propelling him toward the exit, he pushed various people aside, as security people began piling out of the room, with their own principals in town. A red light alarm began blaring, increasing the panic in the casino. He continued to shoulder his way through the milling and panicked crowd, Dutka in tow, like a mama bear with her cub. Just short of the exit, a beefy, uniformed police officer slammed his open palm into Casey's chest.

"Arrêtez!"

"Ah, a tough one, are you?" smirked Casey in French. "How about once more with feeling!" and he brought his hands around, grabbed the cop's fingers and pulled in opposite directions. The cop screamed, his knees buckled and then his head bounced when Casey brought his knee up into his face. Looking back, he saw that Dutka's two men were unconscious, courtesy of two tranq darts from Sarah.

"Where's the car?" yelled Casey into Dutka's ear. "We need to get out!"

"My money! What about my money?"

"Idiot! I save your life and you're worried about money? Fine, I'll pay for your losses tonight! For now, we go!"

**29 August 2011**

**0337 Hours**

**Eze, France**

"And after that, Dutka was so grateful that I got him out, when his two bodyguards had failed him, that we spent the rest of the evening drinking and bonding. He's coming to the show tonight as a special VIP guest of mine, where I'll give him the thirty thousand euros he left at the table."

"You deviated from the plan! Typical American Cowboy!" screamed Kahina. "I should send all of you back!"

"No." The simple word from Sarah hung in the air. "Look, to be fair, the Colonel did deviate from the plan, however, we all agree that he did accomplish the objective. Which, if I remember correctly, was to build a relationship of trust with the target. There can be no question that the Colonel accomplished that."

"But what about the injuries, the cost to the casino? The operation could have been blown!"

"What about it?" replied Sarah. "You can't tell me this hasn't happened before here. Russian mobsters get into a fight, too much vodka, too much money. The casino files a claim with their insurance, the Russians come back, lose big money against the house and life goes on. The cop? Well, I'm sorry he got hurt, but he's not permanently injured or dead. If Casey had been a real mobster, he probably would have killed him. I know that sounds cold and cruel, but it's the truth."

Casey stood up and stretched to his full height. "Kahina. I know our methods may not seem structured to you, but the life of an undercover operative is filled with ambiguities and split second decision making. I may not always make the right choice, but I'll always put the mission first. Now, if there's nothing else, I need a shower and a bed. See you in the morning."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I don't own Chuck.**

**29 August 2011**

**Village Ezu Chateau**

**0813 Hours**

"Sarah. Hey, Sarah?". Chuck's voice broke through the fog of her exhaustion, waking her from the few hours of sleep she had gotten. They had secured a large room on the second floor of the chateau, overlooking the courtyard.

"Hey, you awake?" Sarah opened her eyes to see Chuck looking at her from the other side of the bed they shared. "I'm going to grab us some breakfast from the kitchen. Back in a few." Chuck leaned and kissed her forehead, "Good morning!". He got out of bed, pulled on shoes and a sweatshirt to go with the sweatpants he had worn to bed and went out the door.

As he left, Sarah blinked rapidly, clearing her eyes. She sat up and pushed her way out of the large, overly soft bed, wincing a little at the feel of the cold flagstone floor. Quickly pulling on a pair of socks and one of Chuck's long sleeved shirts, she made her way to the pair of Louis XIV chairs positioned by the large window. She sat, curling her legs beneath her, looking out the window, lost in thought, waiting for Chuck to return.

The door banging open was her signal that her boyfriend had returned. He was balancing a tray in one hand and holding the large door handle in the other. She couldn't help but smile in response to his huge Bartowski grin as he maneuvered his way to where she sat. He placed the food tray on the broad window sill and with a flourish reminiscent of a matador, he placed a linen napkin in her lap. Turning slightly, he poured coffee into a cup, added a generous portion of cream, two cubes of sugar and handed it to her. She mouthed "thank you" and took a sip of the coffee, savoring the delicate taste of the Italian roast.

Chuck bowed and then proceeded to load up a small saucer with a croissant, grapes and cheese, placing it near her on the sill. He then repeated the process for himself and finally, sat down opposite her. Sarah reached for the croissant, waited for Chuck to take his first sip and said, "I'm worried about Casey, Chuck. He's pushing harder than I've ever seen before."

Chuck nodded and said, "Yeah, I saw that too." He took a bite of his croissant and then continued. "You, know I talked to him after the meeting for just a second. Not sure what he meant by it but is was such an out of character thing for him to say that I couldn't help but take notice."

"What did he say?"

"You know, he usually comments about life with his grunts but this time, clear as day, he said 'I'm instrument of faith and I deserve a little more."

Sarah's eyes widened. "Casey said that? Chuck, what the hell happened to him before! Casey is the most professional spy I know. He never lets feelings get in the way of the mission! For him to say something like that...I just don't know."

"I hear ya, sweetie. Casey's state of mind when it comes to this target...I'm just not sure. It's gotta be tearing him up inside to be building a state of trust with someone like Dutka and pretend to be his friend."

"Do you think we need to feel Casey out about his intentions? I mean, we both trust Casey with our lives." She reached out and touched Chuck's face. "And we owe him for all that he's done and not done."

Chuck looked into Sarah's eyes, shrugged his shoulders and said, simply, "It's Casey. I trust him with our lives, no question."

"Yes." Sarah leaned back into her chair. "And with said, are **you** ready? I mean, until now, this has just been hypothetical. You'll be facing the devil tonight, if it all goes to plan."

"Well, my piece is actually not all that hard. Casey's got the hard part, convincing Dutka that he can earn 200% of his investment by using me, his personal financial adviser. I can hack the stock exchange, using the intersect, and predict stock prices and trends. I really can guarantee a 200% rate of return, up until the authorities figure out somebody is hacking them and lock me out. I can do it long enough though to convince Mr. Dutka that he really can get 200% but it's a short term gain only."

Sarah, with a frown, said "Well, Kahina and the French Security Services have fed Dutka enough disinformation that he really does believe that one of his fellow criminals is wanting to sell shares and get out of the company if somebody is willing to pay for those shares."

"Sweetie, all the pieces are there, it's a good plan." Chuck said earnestly "We feed disinformation to Dutka, he bites on the fact that somebody he knows wants to sell Itrea Holdings shares. But he doesn't have the cash flow to buy the shares and needs money fast to be able to make an offer before somebody else does. His new BFF, Casey, introduces him to Alexander Dumas". Chuck pointed to himself. "His personal financial adviser Dumas, in turn says, 'yes, I can double your money, but the stock exchange only deals in money instruments, not promises. You have no cash, Mr. Dutka. How do you propose to buy stocks with no cash?' Dutka hands over his shares because they're bearer bonds. And voila, we have the bearer bonds and the French government controls 11% of the shares of Itrea Holdings. Twenty four hours later, you and me." Chuck does his famous Bartowski eyebrow dance. "We're in the Cote d'Azure, enjoying life! What can go wrong?"

Sarah laughed, and said. "I know Chuck, it's a good plan, I just worry. Casey's not acting like himself. I'm just worried that we're missing the obvious."

**29 August 2011**

**Rue de la Buffa**

**Nice, France  
**

**1009 Hours**

He had had many names in his life. Some he had worn literally for hours, others for years. He had been born Alexander Coburn, but for the last twenty years, he had been known as John Casey, instrument of the United States Government. He had sworn an oath to protect the constitution against all enemies. He had loved and lost in defense of that oath. He had so many ghosts on his conscience, that sometimes the only way he could sleep was with Johnnie Walker Black.

This time was different though. He knew it, in a clinical way. His emotions were running high and were easily visible to those who knew him. He could even feel those emotions in the aggressive way he was driving the Audi A8 through the streets of Nice. People just like Piotr Dutka had killed his network, no, not just killed them, but slaughtered them inhumanely, for the simple pleasure of killing.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel, as once again the faces of his network, his friends, appeared before him. No one deserved what had happened to them. A bullet in the head, a clean death, yes, he could have accepted that. But this unwholesome act had been just pure wanton evil.

He knew his job, his role in this operation. He wouldn't let the team down, but if given the chance for payback, he'd take the shot and feel no qualms. He took an out of character deep breath and pulled into a parking lot near the arena where tonight's Cossack show would be at. His stomach grumbling, he decided to grab something from the bakery across from the arena. Walking across the street, he slipped mentally into his cover identity, Kotovskiy, owner-operator of the greatest Cossack show on earth.

Like most of the Cossack performers, he had eaten here before in the days since they had arrived in Nice, always finding it busy, today being no exception. The cafe staff greeting him with a joyful verve, not least because of the money the performers were spending here. They all professed to be fans of the show, though. He spotted Kahina, in her cover as the show purchasing manager Marie Delacroix, cheerfully waiting to pick up a large order for the morning staff meeting that would start in a few minutes. Smiling in that expansive manner his cover demanded, he greeted one and all, much like a politician running for re-election.

"Marie! Good morning to you!" Casey boomed in accented French. "We are in readiness for the performance tonight, yes?"

"Yes, Monsieur Kotovskiy. Everything is ready. I'm picking up some items for our morning staff meeting."

"Good, good!" Casey turned to the cafe employee. "Please, my sweet. A hard roll and cafe au lait, to go, please?" He returned his attention back to Kahina and in a lowered voice said, "Marie. Please accept my apologies for my excessive spending yesterday. I will try to control that better in the future."

Kahina, surprise in her eyes, replied, "No need to apologize, Monsieur. You did what you thought was best."

"Thank you for the courtesy, mademoiselle. And so, I shall see you inside, yes?"

Kahina nodded, and Casey paid for his order and left the cafe, quickly crossing the street to the arena entrance. A few minutes later, she thanked the cafe staff and made her way out the door, two large paper sacks filled to the brim with baguettes, croissants and other assorted pastries. She waited for the opportunity to cross and when clear, she moved into the street. At the same time, a dark complected businessman began to cross from the opposite side. He carried a rolled up newspaper in his left hand, swinging with the rhythm of his walk. He nodded in passing, his right hand brushing one of the paper bags as Kahina went past.

Kahina entered the arena, nodding hello to various of the performers and support staff as she made her way to the conference room that had been set aside for the daily show staff meetings. Being the first to arrive as usual, she unloaded the sacks, palming the note that had been dropped inside.

She started the large coffee urn and wiped down the counters, using the opportunity to quickly read the note before spraying it with cleaning solution, destroying the written words. Moments later, meeting attendees began to arrive, their excited voices in high spirits, glad for the chance to perform this evening.

She too was a performer. A secret performer. And her true director had given her the lines, the lines that would destroy France.


End file.
